Emmeline. With Some Other Pieces.

Emmeline.

"Do you find the paths in which you are led, or rather hurried and
driven on, to be 'paths of pleasantness and peace?' With what face
can you charge the professors of religion with hypocrisy, if you pretend
to find satisfaction in those ways?--You know that you are not happy,
and we know it likewise."

JOHN NEWTON.

CHAPTER I.

Shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but bitterness.

SHAKESPEARE.

The dews were sparkling in the summer
sun, the birds sang in full chorus, the antic
sports of animals testified activity and
joy, and gladness seemed the nature of
every living thing, when the loveliest bride
that ever England saw was preparing for
her nuptial hour. Affluence awaited her,
and to her rank belonged all the advantages
of respectability, without the fetters of
state. That hour was to see her united to
the gallant Sir Sidney de Clifford,--a soldier
high in fame,--a gentleman who, in person,
manners, and accomplishments, was rivalled
by few--a lover, who adored her with all
the energies of a powerful mind. He was
the husband of her choice--whom she had
loved above all that heaven and earth contain--above
Him whom they cannot contain.

If youth, beauty, affluence, satisfied ambition,
and successful love, can give happiness,
Emmeline was happy. Yet the sigh
which swelled her bosom was not the sigh
of rapture; nor was it, though Emmeline
was the softest of her sex, the offspring of
maiden fears. It was wrung from her by
bitter recollection; for Emmeline had, before,
been a bride. Attendance and respect,
cheerful preparations and congratulating
friends, had beguiled the apprehensions
of innocence. The bonds into which
she had entered, had been hallowed by a
parent's blessing--a blessing given, alas!
in vain. The bridal ornaments, which now
a menial was arranging, a proud and joyful
hand--but this way Emmeline dared
not look. "I will forget the past," thought
she. "This day, at least, I will forget it;
and from this hour I will atone for my
error--for my guilt, if I must call it so.
Every duty will I now punctually perform--sweet,
willing duty now! The censorious
world may be busy with my name--but
what is the world to me? Never
much--now less than nothing. Let Lady
de Clifford forgive me--let Mary--and
my father"--Emmeline checked a sigh of
anguish. "I will not think of that to-day,"
said she; and she started up, to seek
in change of posture and of object an escape
from thought.

Her eye wandered over one of those
smiling scenes almost peculiar to her native
land. The shadows of gigantic oak
and knotted elm dappled a verdure bright
as a poet's dream of the lawns of Eden.
A river, scarcely seen to flow, spread its
glassy windings amidst the peaceful slopes,
where the morning-smokes, and the church
tower peeping from the woods, might lead
the fancy to many a scene of cheerful labour
and domestic peace. But one object
alone drew Emmeline's eye. It was a
graceful figure, which, with head bent
downwards, and looks fixed on the earth,
was slowly and thoughtfully approaching
her dwelling. "Is that the step of a bridegroom?"
thought Emmeline. But, ere the
tear that started had trickled down her
cheek, De Clifford's eye met hers; and his
smile of fond and fervent love banished the
remembrance of all sorrow and all crime.

It was not the coldness of declining passion,
nor the regrets of a reluctant engagement,
which had clouded De Clifford's
brow. Nor was it the fear of the world's
scorn; for even the idea that he could be
scorned had never darkened de Clifford's
soul. His was one of the few powerful
minds, which are, indeed, "their own awful
world." He had been accustomed to
command applause, not to need, still less
to solicit it; and, when crowds huzzaed,
and senates thanked him, he had said to
himself, "these people praise they know
not what. Success is their idol. I might
have been the man I am, and yet tried by
a court-martial." Yet De Clifford was
now, though he acknowledged it not to
himself, sunk in his own esteem. He told
himself that others, tempted as he had been
would, like him, have fallen. But this
balm was powerless for the wounds of a
mind like De Clifford's. Of the heavenly
medicine, which alone can heal the noble
spirit, De Clifford thought not. His only
resource was to banish the recollection of
his guilt; and in this he was not unsuccessful.

But disquiet of a different kind at this
moment pressed upon him. De Clifford
was a proud man. Every one felt that
he was; though few called him proud, because
most people were more inclined to
borrow dignity from his notice, than to acknowledge
his neglect. Yet no man had
higher natural capacities of domestic happiness.
His manners were perfectly free
from arrogance; pride had even communicated
to them a reserve not unallied to
bashfulness. Romantic imagination, strong
passions, and deep sensibility, had shrunk
from exposure to the toilers after low gains
and lower pleasures, till De Clifford had obtained
and deserved a character which repelled
the common herd. His intimacy thus
restricted to a few, concentrated among
those few affections deep and strong-untold,
but effective. He was the only son
of his mother, he was the sole guardian
of his sister, and to the ties which nature
and early association had wound round his
heart, this added tenfold strength; for to
claim the protection of De Clifford, was of
itself to secure his love. But the best affections
of human nature were at this moment
poisoned arrows in his heart. He
had received from Lady de Clifford a letter,
where grief, and shame, and maternal
love, were ill disguised by the language of
cold displeasure, while she informed him,
that, by taking a last leave of his paternal
mansion, she had left him at liberty to replace
her with his bride, without injury to
the spotless fame of his sister, or to the
feelings of those whose pride and whose
hopes had perished in his fall. She renounced,
for herself, and for Miss de Clifford,
all intercourse with the degraded Emmeline,
and sent a farewell, of which the frozen
words were blotted with tears, to one
whom she had loved long and tenderly.

While De Clifford read this letter, he
stood motionless; his cheek pale, his eye
flashing indignant fire. At the close, he
threw the paper from him; and erecting
his martial figure, strode up and down
with proud and determined step. His resolution
was taken. His mother might renounce
her son, his sister might cast off
the friend of her youth, but he would degrade
himself and his Emmeline by no
supplications. Sacrifices he had expected
that he must make--and was not the possession
of Emmeline--his lovely, his gentle
Emmeline--compensation for every sacrifice!

But De Clifford could not so cast off
his early affections. By degrees, as his resentment
subsided, he persuaded himself
that his mother would repent her renunciation.
"She cannot do it," he thought;
"my mother is not heartless enough to
sacrifice us to the illiberality of narrow-minded
prudes and bigots--She will soon
seek us in our happy home, and be happy
with us there. And Mary--Mary cannot
live without us--Her whole heart was
mine and Emmeline's--She will think of
us--talk of us every hour--as she did
when I was in Spain, till she pined herself
sick for my return." And here tears, long
strangers, filled De Clifford's eyes; but
indignant at the momentary weakness, he
dashed them off, and remained resolved.

De Clifford did not convey his mother's
cold message to his bride. He did not
even hint at her refusal to receive them,
nor at his own consequent feelings; for he
was one of those who announce intention
merely that it may be executed. If he
opened his mind, it was seldom with a
view to gain sympathy with his sentiments,
never to seek confirmation in his
purpose. He merely proposed to Emmeline,
that, after a short excursion into
Wales, they should return to settle in
quiet retirement at Euston.

"They will probably soon join us," returned
Sir Sidney. "But you are not
afraid that we should be unhappy alone?"

"Oh, no," said Emmeline; "with you
I cannot but be happy."

"My own Emmeline!" whispered the
bridegroom; and she felt the more assured,
that she "could not but be happy."

De Clifford and his bride did not expose
themselves to the eyes of the gazers
round a village green. Their splendid
equipage stole through a bye-path to the
church. The approach of the carriage, however,
collected a little troop of children
round the churchyard gate. The little
idlers gazed in silence on the first of the
party who alighted; but when Emmeline
appeared, they testified their congratulation
by a universal shout.

Emmeline was a stranger to them all;
and the meanest bride in the village would,
on such an occasion, have received the
same rustic salutation; but the meanest
bride in the village would have received it
with far other blushes than those which
burned in the cheeks of Emmeline, while
she forgot that this annoyance was not peculiar
to herself, and conscience converted
the shout of congratulation into the sounds
of reproach. Shocked and terrified, she
clung to the arm of De Clifford, and hastened
to escape from her innocent tormentors.

A friend of De Clifford's acted as father
to the bride; her own attendant was her
bridemaid. "I detest public weddings!"
De Clifford had said. "Nothing can be
more absurd than to collect a crowd of
fools to pry into feelings, of which nine-tenths
of them know and can know nothing."

Emmeline had cordially agreed in his
opinion; yet now she could not help remembering,
that a father had once bestowed
her hand--that the companion of her
childhood had supported her steps to the
altar; she remembered the group of friends
whom her delighted parents had assembled
to share their joy; she remembered even
the profusion with which, in the pride of
their hearts, they had laboured to grace
the nuptials of their darling--and she felt
the change.

These thoughts mingled with a thousand
others, as she stood once more before
the altar; but she started when the priest
laid upon De Clifford the vow, to "honour
her," and listened, with trembling
anxiety, to learn whether he could steadily
say, "I will." Her own vow was read
--and the words, "forsaking all other,
keep thee only to him," seemed to her ear
marked with an almost reproachful emphasis.
Daring to meet no other eye, she
stole one timid glance towards De Clifford.
His were fixed upon her thoughtfully,
sadly; but meeting her's, they were
hastily withdrawn. That look pierced her
heart. "Ah! he too despises me!" thought
Emmeline; "he too believes that no vow
can bind me!" and covering her face with
her hands, she burst into a passion of tears.

"Emmeline, my beloved Emmeline!"
said De Clifford, while, with a lover's tenderness,
he soothed and caressed her; but
she did not dare to tell him her suspicion,
nor he to own that he had read it untold

The lovers set out alone on their intended
excursion. The valleys were glowing
with the riches of summer--the rivers were
twining their silver threads, and dashing
their tiny cascades among rocks which the
winter torrent had shattered. Along the
foot of the hills, the hazel coppice here and
there opened its bosom, to shew where a
brighter green led the eye to the cottage
orchard; and higher up, the sunny brown
had streaks of verdure to mark where the
spring distilled unseen. Higher still, the
mountains swelled their purple masses
against the sky, or drew the vapours to
veil their barren summits. Emmeline had
all that feeling of the beauties of nature,
which belongs to innate sensibility and refined
taste. De Clifford could share her
delight; and often, when his more thinking
mind had begun to analyze the source
of his pleasure, she would recall him to the
pleasure itself with such artless graces of
imagination as made the scene again appear
new. Nature seemed more fair, solitude
more peaceful, morn more reviving,
and evening more tender, when beauty
and calmness, and vivacity and tenderness,
were reflected in the looks of his lovely
Emmeline.

She, too, had moments which realized
all her dreams of rapture, when she saw
De Clifford happy, and felt that she was
herself his happiness. Still they were only
moments; and when moments of rapture
are subtracted, life has yet long years for
apathy or for suffering.

It was on her return from a delightful
ramble to the rustic inn where De Clifford
proposed to loiter a few days of bliss, that
a packet was put into the hands of Emmeline.
It dropped unopened to the ground,
and Emmeline, pale and trembling, sunk
upon a seat. "Ah!" she cried, "it is
from"--. The name of her deserted husband
died on her lips. De Clifford flew
to support her, but his alarm gave place to
indignation when he saw what had thus
overpowered his Emmeline. "Unfeeling,
vindictive!" he muttered through his clenched
teeth, and would have spurned the packet
from him, but Emmeline snatched it up.
"Oh, do not," she cried--"we have wronged
him enough already."

"At least let me read it," said De Clifford,
taking it from her trembling hands;
"you need not endure his insolence."

The envelope contained these words:

"Mr Devereux cannot retain in his possession
any thing which has ever belonged
to Lady de Clifford. He incloses a deed,
which restores to her the sum which he
received three years ago. He has added
the 10,000L which the law has lately allotted
to him. In appointing Major Cecil
trustee on this deed, Mr Devereux earnestly
wishes that an occasion may thus be offered
of restoring Lady de Clifford's intercourse
with a parent so justly respected
and beloved."

De Clifford read this note without comment.
He laid down the papers, and left
the room without uttering a word.

Emmeline sat gazing on them--tears
streaming unheeded from her eyes--her
slender form bent in dejection and abasement.
She could not now lull her conscience
with sophisms of "hearts not formed
to harmonize, which no ceremonies could
unite;" or of "consenting souls, by Heaven's
own act made one." She could not
seek comfort in recollecting the stoical coldness,
which was the only charge she could
ever bring against Mr Devereux. She had
done him fatal wrong, and she felt it. The
heavier account of evil which lay against
her, Emmeline did not indeed examine, for
her compunction was not repentance. Her's
were the deadly pangs of remorse--not that
life-giving sorrow, which finds, even in its
own anguish, a healing balm. The wronged
Mr Devereux had bestowed on her a gift
which his circumstances rendered truly generous;
he had shewn, even amidst his just
displeasure, a noble concern for her happiness--for
her restoration to the love and
protection of her father; and all the failings
which imagination had magnified, and
all the sophistries with which she had striven
to beguile herself, vanished together
from her mind. She saw, not an injured
husband, supported by the first transports
of resentment, venting anger which she
need not fear, and could barely pity; but
Mr Devereux, deserted, alone in his unsocial
home, wounded by ingratitude, disappointed
in confiding friendship! and she
wondered where she had found the fatal
courage to inflict such aggravated suffering.
She saw him shed on his forsaken
infants a tear, embittered by pity, grief,
and shame; she heard them lisp the sacred
name of mother, and break his heart
with questions "when she would return."
"Wretch that I am!" she cried, "I shall
never return!--My boy! my boy! I shall
never see thee more!" and she wrung her
hands in bitterness. "They are no longer
accounted mine," she cried--"they are not
even named to me!"

She took the deed, and eagerly cast her
eye over it, in a vague hope of finding there
the names of her children joined with her
own; but they were not mentioned. The
gift was to her alone, as if no living thing
claimed kindred or inheritance with her.
"Oh! I have deserved this," cried Emmeline,
"for I had the heart to leave them!"

Who that had seen her as she sat on the
ground,--the snowy arm, on which her face
was half concealed, resting on the seat from
whence she had sunk, her sunny ringlets
wet with her tears, her bosom struggling
with sobs that shook her whole frame,--would
have known her for the same Emmeline
who was wont to chase with feigned
impatience her laughing boy upon the
green--herself as playful and as innocent
as he?

A passing step at length roused Emmeline
to the recollection of what De Clifford
must feel, should he witness her distress.
She rose from her abject posture, strove to
repress the bursting sob, and wiped the
tears which yet would force their way.
"Dearest De Clifford!" said she, "shall I
ever give thee cause to think I regret making
any sacrifice for thee? And yet--But
if thou canst find thy happiness in
poor humbled Emmeline--how much more
may I find mine in thee, my noble--brave
--affectionate De Clifford!"

She had time to compose herself before
the return of her husband. He was absent
for hours. When he returned, the traces
of suffering were seen in his bent brow
and sallow cheek, but his manner was unchanged.
He moved with his own firm
and commanding step; he spoke in his
own calm low tones.

Had Emmeline known how those hours
were spent--had she seen him fixing his
unnoticing gaze on the pool where the big
rain-drops were plashing, or resting his
throbbing head against the cold rugged
rock--had she seen him at last raise his
face, rigid with desperate resolution, and
heard the groan in which her name burst
from his lips, where had been her vain
hope that she was herself alone sufficient
for his happiness? She was then doubly
the cause of his suffering. It was for her
that he had incurred this new and tormenting
sense of inferiority, this remorse, this
first venom of "the worm that never
dies."

It was the anticipation of her fate that
made the resolute De Clifford hesitate and
tremble, while he advanced another desperate
step in the path of darkness. Many
have dared the arrows of self-reproach, and
some with breast so flinty, that none could
fasten there. But the anguish of the
wounded spirit is testified by frantic efforts
to tear out the dart which must be
carried to the grave, or to deaden the
wound which it is not for mortal hands to
heal. De Clifford imagined that he was
performing an act of justice, that he was
atoning as a gentleman for his errors as a
man, when he sought escape from humiliation
and remorse in this billet to Mr Devereux.

"Once more I entreat you to accept the
only satisfaction I have to offer you.
Choose your own time and place. Take
this life, and our account will be balanced,
for you will have robbed me of Emmeline.
"SYDNEY DE CLIFFORD."

To restore this imaginary balance, De
Clifford thought life a cheap sacrifice; for
he had often hazarded life from what is
called a sense of duty; that is, to support
his self-esteem. That he should be forced
to approve and to respect the man whom
he had injured, whom he had endeavoured,
almost successfully endeavoured, to hate
and to despise; that he should feel his own
inferiority to one whom he had wronged,
was anguish to the high spirit of De Clifford.
Compelled to own the generosity of
Devereux, he abhorred himself, and almost
wished that justice might, by his
rival's hand, deal him a deadly blow. Yet
when he thought of Emmeline, the tender,
gentle, timid Emmeline, who, for his sake,
had renounced the society of the virtuous,
the protection of the good, the charities of
kindred, the brotherhood and equality of
all whom the world revere--of Emmeline
left alone, shrinking from the wicked,
though rejected by the pure,--he felt that
he dared not die. But the consciousness
of degradation, the anguish of remorse, the
mistaken sense of justice, returned; and
De Clifford dispatched his billet.

De Clifford was not a man to spend in
unavailing wishes and regrets the energies
which should enable him to act and to endure.
His resolution once taken, he prepared
to meet its consequences. What he
suffered was hidden from mortal knowledge.
Even the eye of love read not the
feeling that sometimes blanched that cheek
which fear had never altered. Once, and
only once, was Emmeline alarmed, when,
in perturbed sleep, he clasped her convulsively
to his breast, and awoke in the cry
that supplicated pity for her. "Thou a
soldier's wife, and be scared by a dream!"
said he, gaily; and the confiding Emmeline
remained in happy credulity.

De Clifford was now impatient to take
possession of his paternal residence. From
thence he could more speedily attend a
summons from Mr Devereux; and in that
home, which was associated with a thousand
undefined ideas of peace, and security,
and kindliness, he felt as if Emmeline
would be less desolate. He announced
his purpose decidedly, though kindly.
"We shall go to Euston, my Emmeline,"
said he. "I feel as if you were but half
mine till I see you in your own house, and
among your own people." Emmeline
cheerfully assented, for the feeblest wish
of De Clifford could guide her will. Yet,
had it not been for the look and the caress
which accompanied this command, she
might perhaps have remembered a time
when she had been consulted as a friend,
though not courted as a mistress.

This presentation of Emmeline. With Some Other Pieces., by Mary Brunton
is Copyright 2003 by P.J. LaBrocca.
It may not be copied, duplicated,
stored or transmitted in any form without written permission.
The text is in the public domain.